


Child

by GraceEliz



Series: The Eldritch Collection [11]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Briefly Satine is here, Darkish Obi-Wan, Eldritch Force, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Possessive Behavior, They/them pronouns for anakin, the Force meddles in history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi feels the storm rising, swirling sands and forge-hot winds. He strips his armour, tucking it into a safe nook of his ship. The Force sings, high and wild, a far cry from the Temple’s symphonies or the clashing of Mandalore’s high bells, encouraging speed. Something in the wastes stretching far into the distance is calling him, a low pulse in the same place he feels the jolt to hyperspace. It is the same call he followed leaving Mandalore, leaving Satine, leaving everything he’d built there as well as the Jedi.As far as anyone else knows he has abandoned his life twice-over. The Force is singing that his life is only beginning.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Series: The Eldritch Collection [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992514
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Child

Obi-Wan Kenobi feels the storm rising, swirling sands and forge-hot winds. He strips his armour, tucking it into a safe nook of his ship. The Force sings, high and wild, a far cry from the Temple’s symphonies or the clashing of Mandalore’s high bells, encouraging speed. Something in the wastes stretching far into the distance is calling him, a low pulse in the same place he feels the jolt to hyperspace. It is the same call he followed leaving Mandalore, leaving Satine, leaving everything he’d built there as well as the Jedi.

As far as anyone else knows he has abandoned his life twice-over. The Force is singing that his life is only beginning.

All lights are off in the green-painted nursery but for the tank with Anakin’s fish in it, standing outside his door where they can hear the water yet not be woken by the low light. The baby coos, waving tiny chubby hands up at him in the cot, blue eyes shining like stars. “Good night, little one,” he says with as much tenderness as he has in his heart, “I shall see you when you wake.” His heart feels too large for his chest, almost ready to explode with love.

Anakin warbles, little baby-noises in the dark.

“I love you,” he vows, and retreats very slowly, into the hall, “I shall always love you, my little dear, my child, mine.”

 _Mine_.

There are people he must talk to, arrangements to be made to ensure that his child may grow up safe and secured. What is the first step? Shall he disappear, or make himself invulnerable? Perhaps it is time to get in contact with Mandalore again, those Journeyman Protectors. After all, he’d been a little embittered towards them after their reaction to his Force abilities, but Mandalorian training would be particularly useful to protect his new child.

Sometimes he remembers he is barely grown himself, but right now he feels ready.

Anakin tugs at his hand, eyes huge and pleading. “Please, buir?”

Despite his anger at the requests of this… creature, he finds himself softening as requested by his child. His hand fits around the back of Anakin’s tiny head, soft hair stroking his wrist in golden-curls. “I found my child in the deserts, a blessing from the storms,” he says deceptively softly without looking away from those precious curls, “borne by the wind into my very arms. Dare you suggest that my child belongs anywhere but here, learning at my feet?”

The creature spits on the shining tiles in front of the throne. “You are no true warlord, nor are you a true Mandalorian. Your child and yourself belong far from these halls you have built on sirened wealth.”

He allows his anger to filter into the air, crisping and chilling everyone but for Anakin who is protected by the bubble of his adoration. “Then you must die,” Obi-Wan announces pleasantly.

The Mandalorian ambassador tilts their head to the side, long dark braids tipping over their shoulder. They make no move to interrupt proceedings.

Anakin leans into his leg. “Buir, no.” The creature turns desperately to Anakin, but gets no chance to speak. “You should turn them out, and should the winds allow them to live, then they may return and ask again.”

“A wise suggestion,” purrs Obi-Wan, and the creature swallows in fear.

“Unhand my child,” he sneers, orders, allowing his voice to swell out across the room, unnatural and entrancing, “unhand them immediately.”

Anakin’s blue eyes are wide, hair a mess of knots about the man’s palm who holds them still. “Help me,” croaks his child, his child, hurting and afraid, and Obi lets his eyes flare orange with his rage.

When he speaks the walls tremble. “Return my child to me,” he says in deadly calm, the eye of a hurricane, the emptiness of an impending sandstorm, “or I shall burn you where you stand, and let the vultures eat your cooked corpses.” Electricity, purple, sparks about his hands, stings his tongue. Anakin closes their eyes. “Your time has expired.”

Nobody is permitted to lay their hands on Anakin. Not a single being. Under his rage, his love, the sharp clinging cloy of it, the Force rushes out from him in a rushing wave. Windows shatter, the lights flick out; someone cries out, but Anakin’s slender body slams into his within seconds. How odd, that it took until today to notice that their head is now half-way up his chest. His baby is growing up.

“Leave,” he snarls, and the air itself seems to carry his command.

“I can’t come and play, my buir is pretty strict,” Ana tells their friends. Laughter fills the air, high and piercing in the way of all children’s joy. It doesn’t bother Ana, not being able to travel alone even now they’ve won their verd’goten; they’ve always know buir is just trying to protect them. They can’t stay with other families overnight in case anything happens, in case buir’s gifts can’t save them, in case their own gift tears loose.

Lia smiles. “That’s okay! My mama says that if your dad is okay with it May and I can come play at yours.”

Ana thinks for a moment. Buir doesn’t usually refuse to let people come over but it’s his Day, one of his Days when they have to do as he tells them. Or sometimes things go wrong. “I’ll ask him,” they tell her, and smile. “I think my Uncle is visiting.” If Uncle visits, they mustn’t tell anyone about it.

Buir says the Jedi will take them all away if they hear about Uncle’s visits.

“Hey, maybe May can bring her new holomovie with her,” suggests Lia with a vibrant grin.

With a gentle pulse of joy-joy Ana asks buir if his business is done, and receives a gentle signal of permission. “We can go ask buir and Uncle now, Lia!”

Anakin is playing with the child of one of Satine’s companions, a younger girl with a wickedly sharp sense of humour. “She has grown since your last visit,” he observes, watching the two heads of long hair glint in the sunshine. He leans forwards on the rail, glancing up at her through his eyelashes.

His dear friend smiles. “Yes, and so has your Anakin.”

 _Your Anakin._ It sends a rush of extremely pleased possessive thrill through him, hearing other people confirm that yes, his child is _his_ , that they belong with him always. Even in the eyes of Mandalore – even in his own – this cloying controlling love is named closer to obsession. What was it they used to say? Love is letting go. Obi tips his head with a grin when Ana runs over, standing below the balcony and looking up at him in adoration. “Papa?”

He smiles, just as adoring. “Elek, ner'ad?”

Anakin flushes, tucking dyed-red hair behind their ear. “I just wanted to know if Lady Satine is staying long.” _Well_ , he thinks, _when you look so hopeful she will stay, then I simply must make it so._

“Oh, I think Lady Satine will stay a few days, yes?” he quips with a short glance to the woman at his side. With a sigh, she inclines her head.

Her pale hair seems to glow low-green under the tint of the painted-glass windows above, cut short and sharp, shorter than the old days when their time was tinted by swelling change-songs in the Force. “I will be staying until the end of the solstice-celebration,” confirms the Duchess, and Obi feels the Force sighing in contentment, Anakin’s symphony and his own dark thunder and the rhythmic bes’laar of Satine mingling.

“I should like you to stay longer,” he murmurs.

Satine does not look at him. “I know,” is her answer, and he hears what is unsaid. _If I were to stay you would chain me as you do your child, and I shall not be chained to do when my Stars guide me away elsewhere._

It is no matter. Anakin will not be leaving him; everyone else is arbitrary.


End file.
